


Common Hours

by pollitt



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-25
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a man with a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt props go to CatHeights, who said "his fingers were cold"
> 
> Beta credit falls on CatHeights, Maverick, and Data785's able shoulders. They are awesome, and if mistakes remain, those are mine.

Eames's hands are cold. Also cold? His ears, his nose, his cheeks and the back of his neck.

He could, and should, be somewhere warm. Should still be asleep. Instead he is standing in the cold, dim street across from a bakery watching and waiting. A thin line of smoke rises from the chimney--someone is inside already, but Eames knows the one he's waiting for has yet to arrive.

He checks his watch again. So far, the plan is still on track.

The baker, a round man as soft as dough, appears in the morning mist and unlocks the gate that protects his bakery from outsiders. He looks around, making sure no one is there--Eames is so hidden the baker doesn't even suspect--before turning the dial of the lock.

He appears at the door, the first shafts of Parisian morning light hitting the cobblestones, and knocks lightly. If the soft little man is frightened, he doesn't show it. He walks quickly to the door and in three quick movements the locks are opened and Eames is inside. The warmth of the stoves hits him first, wrapping around him like a blanket, and then the smell... the sweet scent of freshly baked bread.

"Can I..." the baker asks in broken English, the tiniest bead of sweat forming at his brow.

"You know what I want." Eames answers in flawless French. His face is serious. Determined.

The baker nods. This is not the first time. He moves toward the back, toward the heat of the ovens, and returns a moment later with a package wrapped in plain brown paper. He hands it to Eames, who smiles and wishes the man a good day and snags a hot roll from a tray on his way out.

Eames checks the time and sees he'll have to hurry.

With the package nestled under his arm, Eames walks back down the nearly empty streets, climbs up a back stairwell, slips silently onto a balcony and through an open set of doors.

The layout of the rooms is one Eames knows by heart--from the creaking floorboard less than a full step to the right of where he's currently standing to the table that sits in the center of the room, halfway between the balcony and the bed. The contents of the table, the information that is held in the carefully lettered words and drawings, could bring an asking price large enough to fund a small country. It could bring industries to their knees.

Eames ignores these details and moves deeper into the room, toward the bed and its occupant.

A breeze stirs the papers on the table and skims with a soft _shhh_ over the sheets on the bed. They're near silent noises, but the occupant of the bed is alert in no time, but it's not quick enough. Eames has his hand on Arthur's wrist and he moves, pinning Arthur's arm to the bed and shifting so he's straddling Arthur's waist.

"Good morning, love," Eames says as an introduction.

Arthur removes one of his hands from Eames's loose grip and runs his palm runs over the sheets. He raises an eyebrow.

"I'm guessing you have a good reason for why these sheets are cold," Arthur asks, his voice as cool as the aforementioned sheets.

Eames is distinctly aware of the fact that Arthur is naked underneath the sheet. Underneath him.

"I am truly heartened by your faith in me."

It's a quick stretch to reach the package, which he sets on Arthur's chest. He unties the string, pulls open the paper, and watches Arthur's face as he lifts a perfectly flaky, still-warm croissant from the box.

"If I were a suspicious man, I'd find myself wondering what transgression brought about such a treat." Arthur's eyes move from the pastry to Eames's face and back again.

"Can't a man sneak out in the predawn hours to pick up some freshly made pastries for his sweetheart--"

Arthur snorts at the word, rolling his eyes.

"Without raising suspicion?"

"So if this isn't an apology," Arthur crosses his arms behind his head and stares up at Eames, waiting. "My next thought would be... bribe? Something to butter me up, if you will, so I'll be more likely to go along with whatever scheme you have in mind."

"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," Eames begins, and when Arthur opens his mouth to argue, he does what is expected and stuffs one end of the croissant into Arthur's mouth, silencing him. "Just eat your food, Arthur, and say thank you like a good boy for my thoughtful gift."

Arthur makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh, pulling the uneaten portion of pastry from his mouth.

"When you put in that way." Arthur drops the half-eaten croissant back into the box and moves the whole thing to the bedside table.

Eames should know all of Arthur's moves by now for all the years they've known one another, the jobs they've worked, and the hours he has spent watching Arthur (both before and since this extra layer of their relationship has been added), but Arthur gets the better of him.

Before Eames can fully register what's happened, Arthur has flipped their positions and Eames finds himself on his back, wrists pinned to the mattress, and Arthur's knees pressing tight on either side of his hips.

"Thank you, Mr. Eames." Arthur leans down, his hair falls into his face; the ends tickling Eames's face a moment before Arthur's lips touch his.

The sheet that had been moments before demurely covering Arthur's lower half is now tangled around and between them, and Eames is treated to the sight of long stretches of bare skin.

Eames lets Arthur set the pace of the kisses--unhurried and thorough, as though Arthur were gathering data, was still learning the way their bodies fit together, even though they've been doing this for years. For his own part, Eames runs his hand over the sharp wing of Arthur's shoulder blade and down--tracing a path from the top of Arthur's spine to the dip at the small of his back before smoothing over the curve of his ( _very appreciated_ ) ass and curling around the taut muscle at the back of Arthur's thigh.

"Patience is rewarded, you know." Arthur's voice is warm against Eames's cheek as he plants a line of short kisses along his jaw.

"My dear, I brought you pastries for breakfast and was back here before you woke up. And it was bloody cold out." Eames squeezes Arthur's thigh and both feels and hears Arthur's quick intake of breath. "I think I deserve to be a little greedy."

"You have a good point." Arthur begins unbuttoning Eames's shirt. "First things first, I think we should level the playing field, sartorially speaking."

"Brilliant idea." Outside, the sun is still rising, and framed against the morning light Arthur looks almost ethereal. Eames curls his hand around the back of Arthur's neck and pulls him down for another kiss. "Why didn't I think of that?"

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Henry David Thoreau quote, "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with success unexpected in common hours."
> 
> This is technically the second _Inception_ story I started, it was supposed to be a quick couple hundred word distraction because my muses were cranky (okay, Eames was cranky) that I was going to make them angst. Twelve hundred words later. . .I hope you're happy Mr. Eames.


End file.
